


all that remains is the arms of the angels

by thatsparrow



Series: mollymauk lives fest 2019 [7]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 12:36:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19812445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsparrow/pseuds/thatsparrow
Summary: They're halfway back to Zadash's port when a distress call comes through their systems, a persistent beeping on the scanner like the rotating flash of a lighthouse beacon before the beam is swallowed up by the black of space. Per usual, opinions on how to pursue the matter are split.--written for day seven of mollymauk lives fest: free day (aka mighty nein space au)





	all that remains is the arms of the angels

**Author's Note:**

> been really enjoying archer: 1999 and I'm always a sucker for a space/sci-fi aesthetic
> 
> title from "calamity song" by the decemberists

They're halfway back to Zadash's port when a distress call comes through their systems, a persistent beeping on the scanner like the rotating flash of a lighthouse beacon before the beam is swallowed up by the black of space. Per usual, opinions on how to pursue the matter are split.

"The Gentleman's expecting us back by the end of rotation." Caleb leans over the monitor, one hand braced on the console. "I'd rather not see him disappointed than take a detour to the next system on a likely fool's errand."

"You think they're already dead?" Beau asks, hands folded together loosely and elbows propped up on her knees.

"Dead or abandoned ship. That, or it's a trap for some well-meaning folk."

"Should rule us out, then." Molly's coffee has gone cold by now, the bitter taste of the caffeine tablet turned metallic from the cup. "I say we go. Worst-case scenario, we save a few-dozen unlucky travelers. Best-case, we find something special in their cargo bay to bring back to the Gentleman as a bonus."

"I think you have it the wrong way around."

Molly shrugs at Fjord, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Not in terms of what's likely to earn us the most credits. What's the ship again—Duergar class? That's a mining vessel, then. Can't see whomever's aboard having much in the bank to offer up as thanks—not compared to what they might have in the hold." 

"This is an unnecessary risk." Caleb's mouth is drawn in a flat line, closed fast like the seams of their hull. "I'd rather not chance an uncertain prize against the Gentleman's ire if we miss his deadline. Surely I'm not the only one who feels such?"

"We could argue this the rest of the rotation and not manage to reach a unified agreement, but I'd be surprised if any of the folks still alive on that vessel have the luxury of time." Funny—Molly thinks—how the lot of them had ever managed without Cad; he's the closest thing to a peacemaker they have. "I say we take a vote on our course and set our minds to it. Whichever way we decide, no sense in wasting any further time."

The rest of them nod in agreement, and Cad takes a quick tally of the sides: Molly, Yasha, Jester, Beau, and himself for it; Caleb, Nott, and Fjord against. The matter settled, Caleb gives up his spot near the console for Fjord to chart a new path to the beacon. Shoulders tensed up around his ears, he takes the open seat next to Molly at the table.

"Ease up, Widogast," Molly says, leaning over. "If things go south, you can have my share of the profits."

"Thank you, Mollymauk. I look forward to having the extra credits to comfort me once I've been blacklisted or killed."

—

The Duergar-class ship is drifting idle in the Quannah system, an isolated stretch of space far enough to the edge of Empire-allied territory to be effectively lawless. The crew of the _Nein_ have never taken employment from these parts, but they've crossed paths with enough hungry sellswords who have—blast pistols modded-out something nasty and ship holds specially designed to carry human cargo. Better the beacon is broadcasting from Quannah, though, than the unmonitored patch of black beyond it—the Greying Wildlands and the seat of its de facto capital at Shadycreek moon. From what Molly's heard, it's a place to check your back and the charges of your guns often.

When it comes into sight, the Duergar ship is floating lazy in the black like the overturned belly of a dead fish. Wouldn't have known where to look for it were it not for the guidance of the scanner—lights still on but major systems powered down—and none of that bodes well for the hope of survivors. Molly's not heartless; he'll check the hold for a profit, sure, but he'd rather find the Duergar full of desperate folk than the opposite. Then again, this close to Shadycreek, it'll be a miracle if the thing hasn't already been picked clean.

"Don't know if I like the idea of docking the _Nein_ right alongside it," Fjord says, slowing the ship to an idle stop about a mile out. "Things go south, I'd rather not see the lot of us stranded, too."

"So, what are you thinking?" Beau asks, glancing up from where she's tinkering with her shock-powered gloves. "Send over the shuttle?"

Fjord nods. "Wouldn't say no to a quick scouting trip first. If there are survivors or something worth salvaging, we can bring the _Nein_ over with the rest of the crew. If not, the recon team can make their retreat on the shuttle and we're not risking the whole ship."

"I'll go," Molly says, strapping the Summer's Dance blade to his hip; likely its short-range teleporter will come in handy. "We're here on my initiative anyway. Wouldn't be fair to leave all the fun to you lot."

"I'll go, too." Fjord rises from his seat. "If we need to make a quick getaway on the shuttle, I trust my piloting skills more than the rest of yours—no offense. That leaves Beau as captain while I'm gone." 

"You assume I'm not coming with you?"

"Not when I need you to look after the ship."

Beau frowns, all the petulance of a child who's been asked to stay in her room. "Boring, but fine."

"I'm in." Yasha's great solar-charged broadsword is already strapped to her back. "Should we end up needing the muscle."

"And me." Jester's voice is steady. "We don't know there's nobody left alive, and if anyone is, they'll probably need medical attention. I can bring my kit with me."

Fjord nods. "That's as many as the shuttle will hold comfortably, anyway. Everyone, grab your gear and meet at the hangar bay in ten. Cad, I want you keeping a close eye on the comms while we're gone. Things take a turn, I don't want you all missing our SOS."

Optimistic—Molly will think later—that Fjord assumed they'd even have time to broadcast one.

—

For as many trips as he's taken in the shuttle—dubbed the _Mistake_ with Jester's collection of space-durable paints—the experience never becomes any more pleasant, strapped in knee-to-knee with Jester as the fragile-seeming capsule shifts, groans, detaches from the docking bay and lurches free. Shame that they haven't figured a way by now to beam over to neighboring ships directly.

"What do you think we'll find?" Jester asks him, quiet.

_A dozen dead miners or evidence that points to a worse fate_.

"I don't know," he says. "Likely no one, if we're lucky. Maybe they've already taken their own lifeboat to safety and the beacon was left broadcasting by mistake. One way to find out, I suppose."

The lights of the _Nein_ grow distant behind them, shrinking to a star-sized lamp against the black. Still close enough to provide aid if they should need it, but suddenly seeming impossibly far with that empty mouth of a mile between them. Up close, the Duergar is no friendlier, sharp slate lines like the armored shell of a beetle and claw-shaped mining equipment affixed to the hull. An ugly-looking behemoth that proves no more attractive once they've pulled up alongside it, but at least the size of the thing gives Molly some optimism for what they might find in the hold. (Both of its lifeboats are still waiting in their bays, though, which he hopes Jester doesn't notice.)

"Suits on," Fjord says once the shuttle is docked. "If it's damage that's scuttled it, I don't want us getting surprised by a hull breach or the like. Yasha and I will be first through, then Jester, then Molly at the rear. Understood?" 

"Aye aye, Captain." He can't affix the Summer's Dance to the belt of his suit, so instead he holds it unsheathed, loose at his side with his thumb resting over the trigger for the teleport. Fjord's got his own blast pistols at the ready as the shuttle door demagnetizes, slides open slow into the belly of the Duergar. It sounds like there's a stale wind humming from somewhere deep inside, the steady breathing of some cave-buried beast, but likelier it's just some powered-up cooling system. Fjord nods at Yasha and the two of them ease out of the shuttle and into the hall, Jester behind them with her own pistol and blast axe in hand, medkit slung over her back, Molly following at her heels. They can hear where the beacon must be broadcasting from on the upper deck, but none of the other signs of life they should be hearing on a ship of this size. Jester's jaw sets as she adjusts her grip on the axe; she knows as well as the rest of them that there will be no need for healing here.

Fjord and Yasha lead the four of them on a slow circuit of the Duergar to confirm what they've already figured—empty crew's quarters, half-eaten food left in the mess, a handful of plasma-powered weapons missing from the armory and left fallen throughout the ship. Whatever took place here, clear that the crew of the Duergar weren't on the winning end of it. On the plus side, there's no damage to any of the ship's systems that would put the air at risk, and Molly feels a blessed relief as he peels the suit's helmet from his sweat-slicked hair. They head up to the cockpit last, Fjord disabling the beacon as Jester scrolls through the logs, brows pulling together as she does. 

"Nothing here to indicate what happened—no recorded skirmishes or signs of sickness or anything else. Whoever hit them, they didn't see it coming."

"They must have been good, too," Yasha says, "to have left so little mess behind. They were attacked fast and beaten decisively; though, this close to Shadycreek, I'm not sure that's a surprise."

"A shame, but nothing we can do for them now." Fjord finishes his work with the beacon and moves over to Jester, resting one hand on the back of her chair. "What about cargo? Anything worth salvaging?"

Jester nods. "They went into the Wildlands for Savalier ore."

Fjord whistles, low. "Risky fuckers, weren't they? That should fetch a decent price and curry favor with the Gentleman."

"Assuming there's any of it left aboard." Molly frowns, the feeling of something _wrong_ here settling at the base of his neck like some sort of deep-space bloodsucker. "But why leave the ship? The garages in Shadycreek would never say _no_ to tech like this, and it doesn't seem like the attackers were pressed for time."

"No one to pilot it, maybe?" Fjord looks uneasy, drums his fingers against the console. "What are you thinking?"

"Molly's right—something's off about this." Yasha's hand settles back on the hilt of her broadsword. "Someone was here before us, brutal and efficient enough to dispatch the entire crew without casualties. If they weren't planning on taking the ship, why not leave it trapped? Why not disarm the beacon and ensure no one finds their handiwork?"

"Could we have missed something on the sweep? A pressure trigger, maybe?" 

Fjord shakes his head. "No, I don't think so. Besides, if something had gone off, we would've noticed it." He settles in the other seat at the console. "Fuck. Okay—so what's the plan? Do we radio the others over, or are we calling it a bust? If the Savalier ore is still here, we'd be idiots to give up on it."

"And if it isn't?"

Molly lets the back-and-forth fade from the forefront of his mind. _Why leave the ship? Why keep the beacon activated unless you meant to draw someone here?_ The humming of the cooling system seems louder, now, like it's thrumming through the floors below them. Or—not a cooling system, Molly thinks, sudden. _Like an engine powering up_.

_Oh, gods_. Molly turns on his heel towards the window at the front of the ship, reaching for the Summer's Dance just as the space in front of the Duergar ripples and shifts like fabric, a great star-pierced sheet pulled back as the cloaking system is dropped, the raiding ship coming into view in front of them.

_They never left_.

—

(Later, Molly will hear from the others how it looked to them—the flare that crested from bow to stern as the once-empty pocket of space gave way to the weapons-mounted raider, one set of guns aimed toward the shuttles, the others focused on the _Nein_ . That Beau had gone for the controls even as the first volley of warning shots had burst against their hull, a plasma cannon firing for the _Nein_ 's engine even as Beau steered them forward. The shields had gone first, the panels around the bow had started to crack. Were it not for the final shot that blew the engine, even odds what would have happened afterwards.

"They could have finished us off," Beau will say, later. "I don't know why they didn't."

"They didn't need to. By then, they'd got what they wanted."

Beau will look at the blacked-out screens of the console, anger hot in her throat. "We'll never catch up with them crawling through space like this."

"It's okay." He'll have bruises in his palms by then from how knuckle-cracking tight his fists are. "We know where they're headed.")

—

" _Yasha!_ " Molly calls out as the raiding ship appears in front of them. Spins toward her in time to see the wall of the cockpit ripple, seeming to come to life as a figure steps through it—no, _out_ of it, the raider's invisibility suit deactivating around them. They've got a stun glove powering up one hand and Yasha barely has time to raise her sword arm before their hand wraps around the back of her neck, the charge flaring like lightning through her blood as she goes rigid, collapses on the floor.

_No, no, fucking no_ —Molly ducks as another glove whistles over his own head from behind, lets his sword spin in an arc and split the suit across his own attacker's shoulder. _So this is what happened to the Duergar crew_ — _stunned and shackled in the raiders' hold_.

"Jester, Molly, get out!" Sparks of green are spitting from the end of Fjord's pistols as he fires two quick shots at the one who'd gone after Yasha, another bolt of nova-bright energy extending like a whip from one of the gloves toward the bare skin of his wrist. It wraps around it like a handcuff as he stumbles back against the console, knees giving way under him, pistols sliding out of the slackened grip of his hands as his his body goes still.

"Time to run," Molly says, reaching for Jester's arm and pulling her out of the way of another stunning bolt, steering the two of them to the doorway. He can see her looking back at Fjord and Yasha in a lost sort of way, but he shakes his head. "We can't do anything for them yet," he says, low into her ear. "Not until we've managed to save ourselves, first."

He closes the cockpit door behind them and Jester drives the edge of her axe into the mechanism, sparks stuttering around the ruined machinery and hopefully buying them the minutes they need to make it to the shuttle. He can hear Jester's breath rising high in her throat as they run through the halls of the Duergar, or maybe that's the sound of his own. Their hands are still pressed together, sweat-slicked at the palm, but they're close, they're so gods-damned _close_ , and Molly believes for a full moment that they'll make it until they round the last of the turns and Jester's weight slips free from his grip.

_Wait—_

"Easy now." Molly turns to see a hulking fellow behind them in the hallway, head shaved and a stripe of tattoos running across his scalp. He's got a strange but sinister-seeming weapon in one hand—a long staff with a curved, plasma-edged blade extending from the tip—and a furious-looking Jester held in the other. "Instead of letting your friend come to any harm—" the tip of his weapon lowers down towards her neck, "—why don't you drop that blade of yours and let me take the two of you back to my ship. Make this simple for all of us."

Under the hold he has on her neck, Jester shakes her head, then inclines it slightly towards the Summer's Dance. He can use it to get back to the shuttle if he's willing to leave her behind.

"You won't hurt her," Molly says, sounding more confident than he feels. "Just like you haven't hurt the Duergar's crew, or my friends upstairs. You need them alive."

The man laughs, low. "She'll still fetch just as fine a price even if her face is a little less pretty. The folks running mines out in the Wildlands aren't picky about matters like that." The plasma-hot edge of his blade burns a red line across Jester's throat. Molly's hold on the Summer's Dance tightens. "Or you can play nice, and I'll be sure not to leave any lasting damage. Maybe find her more comfortable employment in the inner systems."

He can hear the sound of traded cannon blasts from outside, his own blood hot in his ears. Jester's jaw is set in an iron line, and the meaning on her face is plain enough: _Run_. His thumb slides over the trigger for the teleport.

"Stay safe—" he says as he presses the button, swallowed up by space before he's spat out in the cockpit of the shuttle, re-magnetizing the door seal and unhooking the ship from the docking bay before he's had a chance to let out the breath he's been holding. 

Jester will be fine; they'll _all_ be fine. Molly will make it back to the _Nein_ and they'll be following the raiders into the Wildlands before any time has passed. 

He carries this thought with him as the shuttle crosses the gap to the ship, as he draws close enough to see the plume of smoke breathing gray from the _Nein_ 's disabled engine. Holds fast to it like a prayer even as the raiders' ship and the stolen Duergar make the jump to some distant stretch of space with their missing friends, disappearing where Molly can't follow.

**Author's Note:**

> and we're done! boy howdy this has been a hectic week but such fun to participate in. didn't manage to find one song to pull all my titles from, but I did at least stick with the same album for consistency (the decemberists' _the king is dead_ —which was actually unintentional but very fitting)
> 
> thanks so much for reading!


End file.
